


Tantalizingly Problematic

by asrundream



Category: Date or Die
Genre: Blood, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pain, Painplay, Physical Abuse, Rope Bondage, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asrundream/pseuds/asrundream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short ficlets about fucking (with) the Host, because I want to make the bad man cry.</p><p>This is fanfiction for a game that isn't out yet! But <a href="http://dateordiegame.com/">the demo has been released</a>, and that's what I'm working from. I played it at PAX East and god damn am I Host trash. I recommend playing the demo before reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SeriousMoonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeriousMoonlight/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one as a series of tweets, so, short and sweet.

I flick my tongue against his lips as he whimpers, sweat and tears carving a path down his cheeks, mask damp and eyes closed tight. I tug once at the strap that's wrapped around his cock and balls, twisting it until the tiny metal buckle pinches his flesh and he writhes.

I think, briefly, about being done with him. About letting him come.

"H-Hero," he splutters, and it's...

It's absolutely fucking pathetic.

"Host?" I sneer, and yank on the strap.

He chokes on a scream, and it's the sweetest sound I've ever heard him make.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not really deviating from canon if there isn't a canon to deviate from yet, is it?

This isn't what he expected when he chose her. The pretty face and the quick wit, oh yes. But the blade in her hand was every bit as quick, and that fact had been confined to his wildest hopes and the things he thought of when he touched himself.

He'd watched as she drove the point of that blade through Mesmer's heart, first. Slunk into the room in the midst of her horror and turned it to anger. Lost a perfectly good outfit to that same damnably lovely little knife, and _god_ , then she'd turned all that anger onto him and made him want to _scream_.

He'd returned to the unfeeling chill of a flickering monitor and watched her eyes fill with crocodile tears.

"It was an accident," she'd lied, and the others believed her.

She'd slit Six's throat next. Orlok she had practically disemboweled, and he found himself with a palm pressed to the tight front of his pants without having even consciously realized it.

The screen wasn't close enough.

The screen didn't smell like the copper tang of their blood or feel like her hand at his throat.

He'd slithered down the hallway to her bedroom, and he hadn't thought it would be so easy when she'd opened the door and let him in and thrown him to the floor and _god, again, this incredible fucking psychopath_.

\-----

She's standing over him in the stiletto heels he'd put in the closet in just her size as a fucking _joke_. Her eye is already swelling, turning such a lovely purple, and he can't help but wonder if they'll mark each other permanently by the end of the night. That is, he thinks, unexpected enough that it just might happen.

At least one tooth is cracked. He can feel it when he presses his tongue to it, which he does, because it fucking hurts. The ring is on _his_ hand now. They both think it's perfect.

"Oh, pet," Hero chides, grinding the sharp point of her heel in until he whimpers. "I'll make you wish you'd killed me."

The Host smiles, teeth bloodied, breath shallow.

"Never."


	3. Chapter 3

You whistle while you work, peeling his gloves off one by one.

The ropes around his wrists are secured first. They're nothing silk or soft, not designed for the sort of thing you're using them for tonight. They're thick, and rough, and they tear at skin like paper. These ropes are the kind made for securing cargo, or escaping from somewhere.

In a sense, you're doing both.

His feet you leave untied, but you run a length of the rough rope across his hips to keep him in place. He whimpers when it scrapes across his cock, obscenely hard already, and his eyes behind that stupid mask flutter closed.

On second thought, you pin his dick under the rope too. He bucks against it as much as he can - not much, you notice, satisfied with your Google-based lessons in knots - and the rope digs in just below the head and scrapes.

He sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath.

_Good_ , you think. _Let it rip him open_.

The last rope (which he's watching intently, wriggling as you measure it and cut) you tie and wrap on itself. It's crude and unpracticed. It's only once you've lifted his head, tugged the rope into place, and grabbed hold of the dangling end that it resembles a noose.

He doesn't ask what you're going to do with it. You're not sure you know. You slip your fingers into one of his leather gloves; it doesn't fit, and it doesn't matter.

You wrap the rope around your hand and pull.

You pull until his mouth falls slack and he stops writhing.

You keep pulling.


End file.
